


Ritual

by elmo_loves_me, jonny_vrm (elmo_loves_me)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-05
Updated: 2006-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmo_loves_me/pseuds/elmo_loves_me, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmo_loves_me/pseuds/jonny_vrm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's harder now because Sam is a hunter, just like Dean, and knows when someone is watching him.  But Sam has softened after two years away, and Dean is just that little bit better than his brother.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

Dean's been watching Sam sleep for as long as he can remember. Even when they were boys and Sammy's little face was angelic in repose, thumb freshly fallen from his mouth damp against the pillowcase, Dean would listen to Sam's quick, shallow breaths while he kept an eye on his little brother through the witching hours.

Dean can recall the solemnity of his nightly ritual - his study of Sam - and how he believed it was his destiny to keep the small body in the bed adjacent to his safe from any harm. His ten-year-old mind that should have been involved with times tables and spelling was instead filled with the correct way to aim his .45, the exact place you needed to stake a vampire, and what Sam was doing every hour of the day.

He could never watch Sam in the light of the sun though, because then Sam would find out and yell like little brothers do, "I can take care of myself! I'm a big boy, Dean! Daddy says so!" so Dean relegated himself to the nighttime, his eyes shining in the dark long after Sam's lashes touched his cheeks.

Now that they're grown it hasn't much changed. Dean still watches Sam, still lets his gaze linger over haphazard, pillow-mussed hair and the flesh-softened angle of a cheekbone tipped upward in sleep. It's harder now because Sam is a hunter - just like Dean - and knows when someone is watching him, but Sam has softened after two years away and Dean is just that little bit better than his brother.

He knows when Sam's really out of it, has counted the breaths per minute and catalogued the flickers of his eyelids that mean Sam is in the REM stage of deep slumber. Only then does Dean indulge his habit, this thing that has become his addiction, his one weakness. Only then, when he knows there's no danger of waking Sam, does Dean let his gaze press over his brother's body, fall into the hollows of his back or the grooves between his ribs.

He drags his eyes past relaxed muscle and tendon, traces Sam's hairline where his bangs have tumbled back exposing the high arch of forehead, and convinces himself that what he's doing is completely unrelated to the dreams and wholly a product of his fate, his quest to protect Sam.

The dreams.

The first time Dean had one he was eighteen years old with enough of a high school education behind him to join the army and throw his life away, or so said the letters that came to the house. Sure, he was an _adult_ in the legal sense of the word, but he'd long ago lost the sense of awe that should have been attached to the term. According to Dean he became an "adult" when he was fifteen years of age and killed a werewolf all by himself for the first time in Georgia. The three years since then had made him old, so far past grown-up that he should be getting senior discounts when he bought booze at the corner store with his fake I.D.

It was the night of Sammy's birthday - "the big one four" as their dad put it - and John had taken them to a _Chancery_ for a treat, ordering burgers and fries, sodas all around - easy on the ice - and chocolate cake to wash it all down. No presents. There were never presents from their dad. Later that night Dean had given Sam a book on Chinese ghosts and a T-shirt that read, "I'd rather be hunting" that made him snicker every time he looked at it. Dean and Sam both knew what kind of hunting it really meant, and deer was about the farthest thing from their minds.

Sam went to bed that night wearing the shirt and later when Dean dreamed, he took it off, his subconscious becoming a bundle of Sam's sweaty skin pressed against his, his tongue tracing every bump and arch of Sammy's spine while he writhed beneath Dean. Dean woke up that night with an aching hard on for his brother, but just thinking that thought was enough to get it to go away while he panted in horror, the ceiling blank and accusatory. Dean turned to look at Sam to reassure himself that the dream was a fluke, he wasn't hot for _geek boy_, and discovered his brother humping the mattress in the throes of a wet dream, his sensual, pink mouth open in a deep breath that fought it's way back as a throaty moan.

The shower was nowhere near hot enough to burn away Dean's shame when he came in his own hand, Sammy's name echoing in his head even though he refused to let himself say it out loud.

The dreams continued until Sam left for college then dropped off almost altogether, but now that Sam was back with Dean his nightly visions of wanton, wanting Sammy returned with a vengeance. This time around with Sam next to him in the car all day smelling like he did and smiling sad and easy like he did, they were worse… or better, depending on how you looked at it.

Eventually, Dean gave in to the pressure and began watching Sam while he was driving, too. Usually Sam slept in the car, but Dean would sneak surreptitious glances even when he was awake. Sam's hair would flip in the wind while his eyes squinted into the distance in a brooding pose that Dean was sure had knocked millions of women and more than a few men on their asses at forty paces with it's forbidden allure. Sam always stared like the rolling deserts or marching forests they passed held the meaning of life, hordes of naked women, and a spell to bring Jess back to life; he stared like he was spellbound, guilty, and craving all at the same time.

Still, anyone could have told you, Dean most of all, that there was just something about dark, serious Sam that could slit your throat and take your money before you even saw it coming - a shadow to him that attracted you even as it repelled. More than once Dean let the car drift across the road because things like staying between the lines and following directions were just not as important as Sammy.

The night Dean clawed his way out of the thin veil of hunter's sleep and found Sam staring back should have been a shock, but when he looked over at the other motel bed to meet his brother's heavy gaze the only thing he felt was relief. Finally, it was over. He was caught out, red-handed, in the cookie jar and the lid was slamming down.

Sam getting up was the surprise, and when he came to the side of Dean's bed, looming tall and obscured by distance and the dusky hue of night, Dean could only lie paralyzed with his mouth open until Sam spoke.

"Why?"

"I don't–"

"Don't lie to me. Why?"

"Why not?"

And that answer is just fucked up enough for Sam to place one knee on the bed, twist and sculpt his body so a hand is resting on either side of Dean's head, denting the pillow. His breath scalds over Dean's eyebrow and nose, Dean's eyelids fluttering down as Sam moves to mouth his chin, bite at his jaw, before panting against Dean's ear.

"This why?"

Sam bends his other leg, bringing that knee up onto the scratchy motel coverlet, swinging the previously bent leg over to straddle Dean's pelvis.

"Stupid question," Dean husks, arms flying upward as he hauls Sam down onto his chest, feeling his brother's heartbeat against his own. How could Sam know that Dean watches him with a sense of duty in his heart, a thorn twisting and turning that won't go away and that won't let him rest until Sam is happy and accounted for? It's deeper than want, deeper than family, something that even Dean can't really name. Something that has Dean driving miles out of his way to look for granola bars when Sam is unhappy with Ding Dongs, something that has him letting Sam control the radio even when Dean's driving.

It's the part of Dean that glows every time he looks at Sam, that heals from the inside out with its strength and dignity; the part that keeps him going, his reason and his pride and his goddamn mile-wide stubborn streak.

Even with all this on his mind, on his lips, Dean finds he doesn't care, not with his brother at long last in his arms.

He isn't surprised when the pulse of blood through their bodies synchronizes, and Sam's fingers drop points of fire all along Dean's side as Sam settles his hips into Dean.

Their quiet, shared gasp is loud in the empty motel room.

END

**Author's Note:**

> (Read the story on LJ [HERE](http://jonny-vrm.livejournal.com/2969.html).)


End file.
